


Mercurial Permanence

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale likes to watch oho yes, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley is horrible at naming his parts but he doesn't mean it, Drunk Sex, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28130079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: Aziraphale is quiet for a minute then. He often is, when they are drinking. Companionable silence is a wonderful thing, and they have plenty of it. He slurps at his brandy, which is a noise Aziraphale will only ever make when incredibly plastered. He’s trying desperately not to think about Crowley fiddling with his parts.In which Crowley can finally be whoever he wants to be and that's ok. Really Crowley, it's ok.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 271
Collections: Ineffable First Times, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> ( _PLEASE NOTE: Fic contains discussion of genderfluidity, by two morons. Please tread carefully if this is going to be an issue, this might not be the fic for you. Please also note - Fanny in the UK does not mean butt._
> 
> _Drunk sex tag - Please don’t shout at me about noncon. This is not that, it is drunk sex between two consenting parties with the power to stop time and sober up if they fancy and is tagged as such. )_
> 
> Also, thanks to my beta team [Snoggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/) and [EnglandWouldFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall)  
> 
> 
> _All in all, this fic is a lot tamer than these notes make out, but I just want to be careful!_

* * *

It’s a lovely spring day, just the usual. For once though, there is a waver of uncertainty in Aziraphale’s greeting. Only a minor blip, but he’s taken a little off guard. Still looking, calculating exactly what is going on. “Crowley.” 

“Angel.”

“Fancied a change?”

“Yup, just flung around a splash of paint, you know, tweaked a few bits here and there.” Crowley sits daintily beside Aziraphale on the bench and crosses one shapely leg over the other at the knee. He huffs, clearly uncomfortable at being dignified, uncrosses and opens his legs again, spreading as wide as usual. “S'been a couple of years since I had… ladybits. I missed ‘em.”

Aziraphale looks away primly, rolling his eyes, but can’t keep the smile from his lips. This man will be the end of him. Speaking of which, “I don’t like to presume, my dear…?”

He knows it’s not hard to offend or hurt Crowley; he is a lot more sensitive than he pretends to be, always has been. No matter how much he flips his hand around and pretends he’s casual about this whole thing, Aziraphale knows it’s deeper than that. So, Aziraphale refuses to bugger up something so simple as the words humans are currently using for their genders and which Crowley may prefer. Luckily, the demon understands him instantly and for once does not insist on prolonging what could be an awkward discussion. 

He just waves a careless hand, “Meh, the usual. Demon. Man. He. They. Snake. Foul fiend. Not fussy.”

Aziraphale nods. OK, that’s fine. Shouldn’t be too hard to keep on top of that. They let a few minutes of silence pass, both lost in their own thoughts. 

“Cunt.”

All credit to him, Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. Once he would have, now he reins it in to a small flutter of blinking. “I beg your pardon?

“Not me. Well, yes me, I am a bit of one, but… What do people call ladybits these days? They’ve always had such ridiculous names for them.”

“Like _ladybits_?”

Crowley pouts his lips and nods in acceptance. “Touché.”

* * *

His hair is long, like it used to be, curling naturally in gentle auburn ringlets. His skin looks softer, but that could be from the lack of stubble. His top lip is a little fuller, his chin possibly gentler, his jaw less confrontational. He has narrower shoulders and wider hips, breasts proportionate to his slender frame, finer hands and feet. His cheekbones are the same though, and his eyes. 

Aziraphale wonders on it for a while. Personally, he has never really felt the need to change his body for anything but work. He tends to just do with what he’s given. Crowley has never been settled in his shape, changes it around every few decades, occasionally spends the odd week here and there as a giant snake. 

Aziraphale has never once failed to recognise Crowley, in any form he’s taken. This time he’s not changed all that much, but somehow so much at the same time. 

“Lunch?”

“Why not?” Crowley’s voice is still low, but not as deep. Aziraphale can’t decide if he likes it or not. Well, he knows he _likes_ it, but preference is fickle. Or at least his is, when it comes to Crowley. Generally whatever he is doing at that moment is Aziraphale’s favourite thing.

They have lunch at a small bistro. Aziraphale eats, his companion does not, apart from picking a few bits off the edge of Aziraphale’s plate. A strand of spaghetti, an olive or two. Shielded golden eyes stare at the young waitress for a few beats too long, and the next time Aziraphale looks up from his plate, Crowley has lipstick on, a shade or two darker than hers.

“You look beautiful, my dear.” He says gently, emptying the last of the bottle into their wine glasses. He does, look beautiful, always. Male, female, neither, both; Aziraphale has always been struck by the beauty of Crowley (except for the 70s - that moustache was awful. He had, however, truly flourished in the early 80s, with the emergence of glamrock and new-romanticism - wild make-up and tight, sheer clothing). 

It’s not just physical appearance either; it’s the lazy natural grace of his movements, the sensual swing of his hips, the juxtaposition of his wild gesticulations and delicate touches, his languid energy that just flows along steadily. Aziraphale likes to feel steadied by it. 

“Shut up.” But burgundy lips curve into a smile as he takes a mouthful of the wine. His fingers on the bowl of the glass are tipped in matching colour. He leaves a perfect lip-print behind on the glass. 

“Would you like dessert?” Aziraphale asks as he dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. 

“We could pick up some pastries on the way home.”

“That we could.” Aziraphale doesn’t ask whose home. “I’ll get the bill.”

* * *

They’re several bottles of Rioja down, when Aziraphale moves onto brandy. Crowley is lounging on the sofa, long legs stretched along the seat. He has had to put the throw over the back, because his shoulders are bared in the glamorous black camisole top he’s wearing and he was moaning about sticking unpleasantly to the Chesterfield leather. He’s taken his boots off, which is nothing new, especially when slightly inebriated, but Aziraphale watches as he takes a moment to colour his toenails bright red. He wiggles them to watch the shine catch the light. 

“So do you _feel_ fenim— femim— like a lady?” Possibly he’s even a little more wasted than Crowley. How fun. 

“Not greatly.” Crowley lays his head back to look at the swaying ceiling. “Having ladybits doesn’t make you a lady.”

“Of course not. There are numberous… lots of humans who have the parts that humans have decided are for human ladies who aren’t actually ladies but are humans.” Aziraphale frowns, wondering if he’s making sense, as if it really bothers either of them at this point. They have 6,000 years of experience understanding each other’s nonsense. 

“Eggsss-ACT-ly.” Crowley agrees, sloshing his glass around in agreement. “I had a dick, and now I have a cunt. And, yeah, I maybe did it to feel a bit lady-ish-ier than before. But still not. We don’t really fit any of it, do we? It’s hard enough fitting all of us,” Crowley makes a grand gesture, waving his arm around the room in some kind of movement possibly meant to convey the enormity of their natural forms, possibly, it’s quite hard to tell once he gets rambley. “All of that… ness… Into these little squishy bodies. None of the available options ever feel quite right. Nah. I just wanted a change now I can be who I like. And to fiddle with these parts for a bit. Still just me.” 

Aziraphale is quiet for a minute then. He often is, when they are drinking. Companionable silence is a wonderful thing, and they have plenty of it. He slurps at his brandy, which is a noise Aziraphale will only ever make when incredibly plastered. He’s trying desperately not to think about Crowley fiddling with his parts.

Crowley evidently knows this, hums and offers, “Do you wanna see?”

Aziraphale nearly loses his eyebrows in his hairline. “Ah, ha, no, I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you.”

He shrugs, draining his glass and belching. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s very kind of you, but m’quite arright.” He will not let himself contemplate the idea. It would be awful. He’d never be able to stop thinking about it. His life would never be the same again. 

“Are you a _bit_ curious?” He rolls off the sofa, onto the floor and sort of slithers towards the wine. It’s more of a staggering crawl, but Crowley doesn’t do crawling, obviously, he slithers, he’s a snake. 

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs and tips his head to the side consideringly. He is curious, very, always. But he doesn’t want Crowley to feel like some sort of exhibit. He’s interested in whatever parts he has, whenever he has them. He’s interested in everything about him. He will not say that out loud. He has managed for this long. “Yes, but it’s fine. You can just…”

Crowley gives up on the glass that he left behind and sticks with the bottle. Aziraphale frowns at his lack of propriety, but forgives him immediately, as he appears to be somewhat stuck on the floor right now. He has managed to shuffle back to lean on the sofa, but heaving himself up onto it is possibly asking a bit much. “I’ve got lovely tits. And my pussy is..” He kisses his fingers dramatically, like a french chef. 

Aziraphale swallows hard. “I’m sure it is, my dear.”

“Really are wonderful things, fannies.” Crowley wriggles his backside on the floorboards a bit.

* * *

This is… not going to end well, Aziraphale can tell. He can clearly see the minute rolls of Crowley’s hips and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s doing there. Crowley doesn’t seem to realise that though, fairly fellating his bottle of wine as he drinks and casually pleasures himself on the floor, with the tightness of his own clothing, the seam of his jeans tight and cutting in. Or, does he?

“Would you mind, my dear?” Aziraphale gestures to the movements. 

“Not at all, my sweet.” Crowley deliberately misunderstands him, quirks a mischievous grin and slouches a bit further down, raising a hand to rake his hair out of his face. His long fingers stroke delicately at his still sharp collarbone, before sliding decadently down his torso, over the new curves and old leanness, and down between his legs. Oh, Good Lord. 

“Not what I meant.” Aziraphale manages not to expire immediately on the spot, but his voice does squeak a little. 

Crowley spreads his hips wide, so it’s clear to see the way his fingers part and skim down, framing what Aziraphale can picture as a rather delectable set of genitals. He maintains eye contact throughout, though his eyelids droop as he strokes back up the centre seam with his middle and index fingers. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale warns. Though, unfortunately, he’s a little breathless and it sounds a bit pleading. This is so unseemly, but still, rather fabulous. 

He starts to sober himself up a little in preparation to take the demon in hand (not like that!), but is interrupted by the rasp of a zip and gets irreparably distracted. The black, sinfully skinny jeans have been unfastened, and Aziraphale can’t quite stop himself from watching the dark nail-tipped fingers creeping in. Crowley’s eyes completely close as he gets fully inside, and he hisses slow and sibilant. Aziraphale can see the movements of his hand beneath the constraints of the denim and he fidgets in his chair. Crowley is stroking, up and down his slit, teasing at his clit already, and Aziraphale can smell the arousal across the distance between them. His collar feels suddenly too tight, and he fumbles at the top buttons, wondering if he should really be stopping this nonsense a bit more firmly. 

“I think you should... remove your hand from… there. Um, right this instant.”

Crowley opens his eyes, glowing and intense. “Ok, Angel.”

But that was far too easy, and Aziraphale shouldn’t have taken him seriously for a second. Because he does as he is bid, but he does it slowly and seductively, raising his hand to his mouth to lick at his used fingers. His tongue is still human, but as it slips between his digits it may as well be elongated and forked, because it is lithe and slippery and Aziraphale has to clench his hand into a fist to stop from feeling the echo of it on his own hand. Crowley raises the other hand for a little more wine to chase down the taste. Fuck. 

The scent drifting across the room is divine. Sharp and cloying, sugar and salt, and Aziraphale wonders what the harm is. What is the harm? They’ve been cruising around this for at least the last few millennia. This might be the prime opportunity. He downs the last of his brandy and puts the glass down with a thunk.

“Put it back in.”

* * *

A clearly pleasantly surprised Crowley re-licks his fingers and shoves them back down his, now slouching, trousers eagerly. The thrill of contact makes him tip his head back onto the sofa, heavy, lazy. He pulls his legs up, bending his knees, bare feet flat on the floor for grip, and wriggles his hand about in there. It makes his thighs shake and Aziraphale almost has to sit on his hands to stop from going over there to hold them down and still for him. 

He wants him to take off the jeans, but it feels so much naughtier like this. Crowley likes naughty. It would seem Aziraphale does too. He is shifting in his seat when Crowley lifts his head again. The eye contact makes Aziraphale’s belly burn, hotter than the brandy ever did. His own trousers feel too tight and he can’t seem to sit comfortably. He sees Crowley shove his hand further into the cradle of his clothing. 

“Ungh.” Is a noise. That sort of seems to push out of the demon involuntarily. Aziraphale can only imagine what is going on out of his view. Digits, he imagines, one, perhaps two straight away (because that’s just what he’s like, impatient and needy) have sunk into Crowley’s newest entrance, possibly straight up to the base knuckle. 

Aziraphale makes an effort to quirk an eyebrow at him, a smile peeking out on his lips. The lust is making his head swim, in a more pleasant way than alcohol ever has. Crowley puts the wine bottle down beside him to free up his hand to pull at his top, tugging the fabric down to reveal his breasts to the air, to Aziraphale. 

Oh, yes, they look like they'd be a perfect handful. Small enough to go braless, but generous enough to fill the palm of his hand. A stunning curve of ribcage at the top, before they fill heavily and round into pale pink-brown peaks. Aziraphale's fingers are twitching with the need to touch. 

He is nibbling on his bottom lip, eyes moving keenly, watching as Crowley rolls a hard nipple between a finger and thumb, and pushes the palm of his other hand down against himself to grind on. Crowley lets his jaw drop, breathing heavily through his mouth as he bucks a little from the sensations. Aziraphale wants to taste him, his skin, his sweat, the slick between his legs. He needs, suddenly, to see it. He wants to know how wet he is, if it glistens in the light, if the swipes of Crowley’s hands are leaving smears of shine on the inside of his thighs.

Aziraphale raises a hand, as if to call him to a pause. Crowley doesn’t do that, but he does gasp at him, “What now?”

“May I…?”

Crowley, clearly has no idea what he is asking, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. “Go for it.”

Aziraphale drops his hand and the jeans are gone. Somewhere, who knows where - Aziraphale himself has very little idea. Disappearing things like that is rather instinctive and if he doesn’t concentrate they can turn up in the oddest places. He doesn’t care, Crowley’s new parts are out in the open: distinctive tight, auburn curls at the apex of his slender thighs, pink-kissed vulva, lips open around his fingers, which are obviously pumping in and out, slowly and indulgently. Crowley rubs the base of his thumb, nestled within the wet embrace of his labia, capably over his clit. His legs are shivering as the cool air kisses at his newly bared skin. 

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale, elbow on the arm of his chair, rests his chin in his hand and does not look away for a second. 

* * *

There haven’t been many carnal experiences in Aziraphale’s long life, but Crowley has featured in most of them, whether he knows it or not. The great sexual awakening of 41AD, for example, when Crowley drank wine until his teeth stained blue, and slurped oysters, and Aziraphale accidentally grew himself a penis under the table. That was the first. 

This is proving to be the most magnificent of all. 

Crowley is panting, sharp teeth gritted and back arched. He rolls himself over, pulling up on the edge of the couch to half lie on it, belly down, knees on the floor, arse in the air. He’s still got one hand buried between his legs, and from the new angle, Aziraphale can see his middle and ring fingers plunging in and out between his lips and the shine of his natural lubrication smudged on his skin. There’s a disgustingly delicious juicy squelching sort of sound starting up and it’s having the oddest effect on the angel. He makes the effort not to cup at his own genitalia, because that will be a very slippery slope.

Just when he’d thought it couldn’t get any more lewd, or fantastic, Crowley spreads his legs a little wider and starts rolling his hips. Aziraphale finally has to close his eyes, because that will be the end of him. The demon picks up his pace, moaning into the woolen throw on the sofa, and Aziraphale snaps open his eyes just in time to see the quivering start in his muscles. The moaning pitches higher, more stuttered, and then with pure and devastating undulations, Crowley is coming, wanton and loud. Aziraphale’s cock twitches eagerly, as if it had something to do with it. 

Crowley stays where he is afterwards, half collapsed, half lounging. “Could you come and fuck me now please?” He requests into the cushions. 

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.” Although it seems to be the only idea he can think of. And actually, it sounds marvellous.

He whines, “Come on. I’m right here, just… slip it in.”

That would be rather nice. 

“Asssziraphale.” Ok, the hissing. If the demon is reduced to hissing his name like that, Aziraphale will not refuse him anything. 

He’s across the space between them in an instant. Too fast for human movement. He hopes that wasn’t a miracle, because explaining that away will be a nightmare. Except… he doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone anymore, does he? He can do as he likes. And what he likes is to crowd up behind Crowley, place his hands gently on his round backside and smooth them forward, pushing up over his back, sliding under the bunched up remains of his camisole and drag his fingers back down. He’s going to feel this skin as much as he can. 

Crowley is having none of that though, no slowness, no softness. He wrenches up off the floor, grappling Aziraphale, lifting him bodily and dumping him back onto the couch. Crowley straddles him immediately, wrestling with the fastenings on his trousers. Clinking belt, button popping off, and ripping the zip so hard it will likely never recover. He pulls and shoves at Aziraphale, positioning him exactly where he wants him, and Aziraphale can only smile and hold his hands out, waiting to be put where he should be. 

“This is not exactly me just _slipping it in_.” 

“Shut up.”

Crowley pulls his own top off, small breasts bouncing (that must surely have been uncomfortable, so Aziraphale reaches up to… comfort them, and they feel surprisingly heavy and unsurprisingly soft in his hands), and wriggles his way forward. A hand roughly grasps hold of Aziraphale's cock. Really, that contact is rather marvellous in itself, and it punches a grunt of pleasure from his chest. Crowley angles it the way he wants it and simply sits. 

* * *

The slide in is wet and hot and feels purer than heaven itself. Crowley’s head rocks back in ecstasy, a long loud moan dropping his jaw. Aziraphale echoes the sentiment. There is no way this act is not holy. There are tremors of pleasure echoing through his body. He pushes them down with some difficulty.

“You might want to wait a second,” Aziraphale manages, tense. He doesn’t want this to end, certainly not when it feels like he’s waited his whole lifetime for it to finally begin.

Crowley looks at him thoughtfully, tips his head from side to side. “No.” He says simply, grabs hold of the front of Aziraphale’s clothes, all of which he is still wearing, and fucks him. Hard.


	2. Crowley

Aziraphale’s hands go to Crowley’s hips, slide down to his hard-working thighs, and just _ dig in _ . Crowley loves it, the sizzle of pleasure-pain reverberating through his pelvis, sending his vagina clenching around the cock within, making Aziraphale moan and close his eyes. He is loving this, The Angel, it’s clear to see; being fucked, being used. Crowley grits his teeth in a demonic grin and sinks his fingers into the golden white curls upon his head, pulling it back to open up his throat. He leans in, kisses, bites, licks, tasting down all the goodness, and the badness, and the want and need and sweat. It’s delicious. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers worshipfully. 

There is something glorious about being completely naked upon a fully-clothed person. Something powerful. Crowley revels in it, thrusting down onto him with full confidence, sitting up to throw his head back and feel his long hair trailing down the bare skin of his back. He’s going to be sore after this, sensitive tissue bruised and aching. He won’t will it away though, he’ll feel it and enjoy it. 

Aziraphale is breathing harder, little grunts and pleas falling from his lips. He is so beautiful, sweating and flushed, taking it and revelling in it. He’s getting close to the edge, Crowley can feel it in the twitching of his hips and the judders jolting him inside. Crowley tips his hips a little further back, letting the tip of Aziraphale’s cock graze against all the over-sensitive places inside him, rolls on each movement and feeling the shockwaves burn all through his belly. He angles to find his own g-spot with ease (he’d got very good at that a decade or two back, when he wore a vagina on the regular and spent his nights sweating and fingering and fantasizing about the gardener rucking up his prim skirts and fucking him into the floor) and lets out an ungainly squawk that he should probably be embarrassed about. But Aziraphale just smiles sweetly at him. 

“I’m going to come again, any second,” Crowley warns, trying to get some air in, like he needs it. 

Aziraphale moans, open-mouthed, making heavy eye-contact. His eyes, fuck, his eyes. Glowing pools of black, ringed with deepest ice blue. In all their years, Crowley has never seen them so. He wants to do it again, all the time. They are stunning. He closes his own eyes and leans in to kiss him. 

Oh! He tastes of sex and stars, brandy-flavoured freedom. Aziraphale kisses back like he’s found treasure, eager and how have they not been kissing for millennia, it’s the best thing ever. Soft lips crushing together, wet tongue and sharp teeth - perfection. His hand trails along Aziraphale’s collarbone, the bottom of his neck, his shirt unfastening before him like a welcome, and the Angel lets out the most lovely high, stuttering breath. Well, isn’t that a gorgeous thing?

Crowley shifts his hand round, thumb one side, fingers the other, and grips Aziraphale’s throat. Not hard, he could never hurt him, but he could fuck him up a little. He breaks the kiss and looks at him. Aziraphale is  _ losing it _ . It’s what Crowley has always wanted to see. It is  _ wonderful. _

* * *

Aziraphale is magnificent when his orgasm hits, arching up, swelling with feeling, calling out, his voice vibrating under Crowley’s hand. Crowley slams his slender hips down onto his lap haphazardly, feeling his own climax kick into life, spreading from the bottom upwards, outwards. It overwhelms him this time, exploding out from his belly, heat flooding and wracks of pleasure clenching at him from the inside until he literally cannot see, or hear anything except the faint roaring in his ears and his own voice, doing something he never asked it to do. 

When it recedes to aftershocks and limp muscles, Crowley slumps forward like his strings have been cut, head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, chest crushing and hair tickling. “Well, fuck my life.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m going to sleep now.” Crowley warns lazily.

“Here?”

“That’ll do nicely, thanks.”

He can practically hear Aziraphale roll his eyes. “That wasn’t an invitation, Crowley.”

“Then take me to bed.” He offers. It’s clear to him. He knows Aziraphale has one, whether or not he uses it. Crowley is not sure his body will hold up to moving itself. It feels exhausted, earthly, shaking apart at the seams at the very idea of standing up, let alone conquering stairs.

Aziraphale clears his throat gently. “You do realise… I’m still… inside you.”

Crowley wiggles his hips drowsily, with a yawn. “Yes, of course. It feels lovely. You feel lovely.” It does. Warm and wet and a little tickly when they breathe.

“Well, maybe we’ll just stay here for a minute.” Aziraphale gives in. 

Aziraphale waits until his penis softens completely, until the tickling sensation of it slipping out of Crowley’s vagina becomes an irritation to the pair of them, and he then shifts them carefully. He lifts Crowley’s arms to wrap around his shoulders and bears his weight, supporting him beneath his buttocks, while he shuffles forwards off the couch. The demon sleepily harrumphs into Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his long legs cooperatively around his waist and hanging on. Aziraphale clearly thinks he’s fully asleep, and he makes no attempt to disabuse him of that notion; he’s not going anywhere, now he’s got this lovely body against him.

Crowley smiles into a sweet-smelling shoulder as Aziraphale staggers up the stairs to his rarely-used bedroom (kept conveniently clutter and dust-free). He is lowered him carefully onto the perfectly-made bed. So carefully. Crowley feels like a gift. He feels beautiful. Loved. He hates how perfect that feels. 

Aziraphale very very rarely sleeps (just a catnap of an hour every half century or so, usually accidentally as far as Crowley can tell), but he strips off his top layers to lie down beside him all the same. Crowley can not be bothered to wrestle the duvet out from beneath them, but then he doesn’t need to, because another is zinged out of the air and laid over him, tugged up to his shoulder and patted down. 

* * *

His Angel is asleep, when Crowley wakes. He’s glad for that; Aziraphale will want to  _ talk. _ Crowley is not here for talking, it feels far too much like vulnerability. So he kisses the sleeping face goodbye, and nips, naked, downstairs to try and find his clothes and boots. The jeans are gone, literally just gone, so he has to snap some more into existence. A bit too tight these ones, ugh, bruised flesh and friction-sensitive skin shouting. He swaps them for a skirt, a wave of his hand freshening up the mess between his legs, but leaving the aches, as he’d promised himself he would. Without underwear, the air kisses at him, a draft cooling the heat. Nice.

He gives the rumpled sofa a long glance as he leaves. 

* * *

Oddly enough, it doesn’t immediately come up in conversation the next time they meet. Nothing new there. Alas, this method of avoidance worked a lot better when they went longer between meetings. An argument was easily forgotten and forgiven over the space of a decade or two, an embarrassing moment waved away by the silence of a few years, or a “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” actually just never mentioned at all. Now though, Crowley is wondering if Aziraphale spends as much time remembering everything as he does. Especially this newest avoided subject. Wonders if he misses the contact, the skin and mouths and hands. They fit so perfectly together - not just genitals, Crowley expects they could manage just fine with any parts they had at their disposal. That’s a lovely idea.

He had whipped his penis back into existence before he left to meet Aziraphale that afternoon. It was a familiar weight and push in his jeans, but he was sad to say goodbye to his breasts - they were lovely, even if he said so himself. He'd have kept them, mixed it up a bit, but the less reminders the better, probably. Definitely.  


They sit in silence for a few minutes, conversation ceasing naturally. Crowley is watching the ducks. They are just as boring as usual. Swim swim, quack quack. His mind wanders, strolling along beyond his control for a little while. 

“Do we need to discuss it?” Aziraphale finally broaches, shaking out his newspaper awkwardly, though the pages are in perfect order, as always. 

“Please, no.”

“I think—”

“Why ask me, if you’re going to just plough on through bullishly and do it anyway?” Crowley snaps.

Aziraphale closes his mouth firmly before looking back to his paper to hide his hurt expression. 

Crowley closes his eyes briefly before looking back at the ducks to hate himself a bit more. 

* * *

He takes Aziraphale out for dinner to apologise. He watches him eat, while he himself just drinks copious amounts of coffee that he will regret later when he has to reverse the effects of the caffeine and suffer the splitting headache for a few minutes. Aziraphale is smiling, chatting again, and Crowley just looks, listens, and basks in his glow, as he has done for millennia. 

“I’ve got a lovely bottle or two waiting at home,” Aziraphale offers casually. 

Only, it’s not casual, is it? Crowley can see the lines of worry around his eyes. He needs to ease them immediately. “Sounds delightful,” he assures him. “Just one or two?”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiles brightly, “I may have a few more. I’ve a new catalogue from the wine dealer if you’d like a look.”

Crowley drops a pile of notes on the table (a few too many, because he’s a bastard and Aziraphale is fussy and the wait staff are always put to great trouble by the pair of them. Aziraphale seems to like the food at this restaurant, so he’d like them to be welcome to return). “Come on, Angel, I’m thirsty.”

“You’ve had eight coffees in an hour and a half,” he points out, slipping back into his jacket. 

“Thirsty for wine.” Crowley clarifies. Thirsty for several other things too, but he won’t go into that. 

* * *

Alcohol is a wonderful thing. He could let himself get lost in the effects of it, leave behind his concerns and inhibitions and just be. Or he can drink and drink and not let it touch him for a second, keep all his faculties about him and his defences up. Which is what he does that evening. He watches Aziraphale get drunk. He watches him sink lower and lower into his chair, spouting all sorts of wonderful nonsense and rumpling up his smart clothes. Crowley waits until the clock strikes midnight, and then he bids him a good evening and drives himself home. 

* * *

They see a show the next night. They feed the ducks together a week later (or rather, Aziraphale feeds the ducks and Crowley spends an hour resisting the temptation to trip someone into the lake). They watch the news on Crowley’s TV and discuss politics the day after that. It’s normal. Until he’s opening his flat door to drive Aziraphale home, and he turns to Crowley, catching at his jacket with a careful hand. Crowley looks down at the delicate fingers and tries not to remember them digging into his naked thighs. 

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Aziraphale broaches cautiously, “But I’m happy to, if you ever change your mind.”

Crowley is grateful for the sentiment, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever change his mind. Opening himself up like that is just asking for more heartbreak. He’s not sure his heart could take anymore, human heart, or demon, or otherwise. He smiles awkwardly, trying to appear grateful, but unbothered, and not at all uneasy about the subject. 

“I mean it, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” he tries. And stops. This is talking. Stop talking. “Let me take you home.”

There is anguish on the Angel’s face then, Crowley catching a glimpse of his adorable features crumpling as he turns away to conceal them. Aziraphale agrees a bit too brightly, “Ok. Thank you, that’s very kind.”

No, no, NO. That won’t do. “What?”

“What, what?”

“Don’t ‘what what’ my what.” He snaps. He takes a breath to try again. “What’s the matter? Is it because I don’t want to talk? I don’t  _ do _ talking. I’m dark and mysterious, by my very nature.”

“If you say so.” He sounds tired. And sad. It’s not even a put-on pouting this time. This is not manipulation, Crowley would smell that in the air (like an old vine: curling, twisting, rancid green). All he can smell now is the dimming glow of sad angel. 

“Argh,” he growls, and shuts the door again, defeated. “We fucked, Angel. Once in over 6,000 years. If you want me to be sorry, I can be. If you want me to apologise aloud for it, then I will, I'm sorry, I apologise, I didn’t go into the situation intending to tempt you into _ sin _ ." He waves a hand as he says the word, as if it will detract from the enormity of his statement. “I didn’t mean to drag you down to my level, I just wanted a good hard fucking. By you. Wanted you. Ok? I’m sorry. Let’s forget it and move on now. I won’t do it again.”

There is a moment of quiet, and then, “What if I wanted you to?” It’s a tiny little question, whispered and wary. 

* * *

That is about the only sentence that could make Crowley freeze in his tracks. He takes a long slow breath, tells himself this is not happening, this doesn't happen. He doesn't listen. 

Aziraphale steps in, backing him against the inside of the door, one hand ever-so-lightly on his chest, but still steering him as though he has a steel choke chain around his neck. Apparently he thinks he’s already seen his answer. He likely has, to be fair.

"I don't have... those parts anymore, Angel. I'm not what you want."

Aziraphale smiles up at him, as if Crowley is truly a complete idiot, but he adores him anyway. Which is pretty true really, as far as he can tell. 

"It was never about any parts, my love."

Aziraphale kisses him then: soft and delicious. He leans up to press his plump lips gently against Crowley’s, then a little harder, as he’s tipping up into him. Crowley’s hands fly up, secure around his face, fingers spanning his cheeks, not letting him go, not letting him go  _ anywhere _ . And he kisses back, pulling away for just a second and then straight back in with lips parted, closing over his Angel’s, tasting him, gasping him in. 

Heaven. 

Better than.

It’s sweetness, it’s romance, and then it’s sex; hot and wet, Aziraphale pinning him against the door, hands pressing his hips back so he can step into his space, tongue in his mouth, teeth at his lips. All at once the timid little Angel has disappeared and its place has appeared The Soldier, the Wielder of The Flaming Sword, the Purest Principality, Guardian of The Eastern Gate and Defender and Protector of the Human Race and the odd demon here and there. The bubbling feeling in Crowley’s belly spills over and he grabs, pulling Aziraphale in against him harder, pressing two keen groins together. 

"Yeah, ok, this works too," Crowley admits, breathing hard. 

"Hmm, it does, doesn't it," Aziraphale chuckles. He pushes Crowley's jacket down, wedging it between him and the door, and starts working on the buttons of his waistcoat. 

* * *

Aziraphale trails him to the bedroom, tripping over each other's shoes as they kick them off, shoves him down onto the bed. Crowley's erection is pressing painfully into the zip of his fly, so he takes the opportunity of Aziraphale removing his own jacket, to slip his hand in and adjust. Just a quick shifty to the side. Those blue eyes darken noticeably as he whips it back out again, caught.

"Ooh, you really do have a voyeuristic kink, don't you?" Crowley teases, licking his teeth lewdly and running the palm of his hand over the bulge in his jeans. He can cater to that, he can be that for him. He’ll be anything.

"Put it back in." That is pure command, and Crowley loves it. It calls to mind crystal clear memories of that night, of Aziraphale's change of mind, of his lust and desire. 

Crowley arches his back, revelling in the feel of it all again, now crowding in his mind. It makes his skin sing in anticipation. He does as he is bid, opens his jeans, seductively, slowly, and slides his hand back in. He grips around his cock, hot and hard, and gives it a friendly squeeze. 

There’s no room to maneuvre in the confines of skin-tight denim though, so he gives Aziraphale a pleading sort of look - big eyes and pouty lips. “You’re going to have to do the trouser thing again though.”

Aziraphale does one better. Instead of whipping them away with divine thought, or whatever he calls it, he reaches over and takes hold of the ankle of each trouser-leg and tugs, pulling them down and off in a long, whooshing slither of sensation. He peels socks off and flings them away too, then crawls over Crowley like a predator, a sly smile on his lips. 

“I do like to watch you,” Aziraphale admits somewhat sheepishly, “But I’d like to feel you this time too.” And he slips his hands up under Crowley’s shirt and  _ slides  _ his palms up over the planes of his belly. 

Crowley is, for some reason, entirely incapable of saying anything except, “Yes, please,” and then moaning pathetically. 

Aziraphale is biting at his own lips as he shoves Crowley’s clothes up and out of the way, white teeth catching the red-pink corner. Strawberries and cream. He leans down carefully, catching the demon’s eye as he places his open mouth onto the fine layer of skin over his sternum. Then he licks, closing his mouth after his tongue, sucking a wet kiss as he tastes. 

He is going to die. Crowley is going to die. It could just be the build up of anticipation, exacerbated by the taster he got almost two weeks ago, but he can feel tingles of power sinking into his skin from their points of contact. Before Aziraphale can raise his head, Crowley has slipped his fingers into his soft hair, arching his own spine for easier access and encouraging him to stay where he is. 

The initial dampness left from Aziraphale’s mouth evaporates with a tickle of a chill, but he’s making a new one, sucking at Crowley’s sensitive, heated skin, trailing his plump mouth over the bumps of his bones until he finds a nipple. Then he has a taste of that too, and sucks it until it feels sharp and pointed between his lips. Crowley is digging his heels into the mattress and trying to take the annoyingly numerous layers off his Angel without jeopardising his position. It’s not working. 

He’s never really paid any attention to his male nipples before. They’re sort of useless; he only has them there for aesthetic value. They are, however, he is now discovering, also very sensitive when he is aroused. Very sensitive. 

“Take your damn clothes off, Aziraphale,” he grits out. He arches, rubbing up against the solidity of flesh above him. 

Aziraphale listens, pulling back to wrestle off his waistcoat, unfasten his trousers. Then he gives up and waves a hand at himself to reduce his covering to shirt and boxers. Crowley almost approves, yanking him back down for a kiss, but only almost. Naked would be better. He’s not seen him naked yet. 

The kiss only lasts a few seconds, and then Aziraphale is up again, tugging Crowley’s t-shirt up over his head, helping pull it off his arms, throwing it to the floor. Crowley fiddles with ridiculously tiny and awfully numerous shirt buttons. He only manages to get half of them undone before he is too distracted by Aziraphale's hands - they are  _ everywhere _ . Sliding down to grab at the flesh of Crowley's thighs, and up over his abdomen, skating bumps of muscle and bone, and tracing the lines of his ribs. His whole body shakes with the force of the contact, winding up and building that wriggling heat in his belly. 

"Angel," he gasps. The confidence in his Angel is stunning, in the best way, the ease and capability and smoothness of his actions, like he’s been waiting a long time to do this and has thoroughly planned and prepared for it. 

Crowley is not sure what he's trying to say, but apparently Aziraphale is, because he lies back down over him, kisses him firmly and rolls their hips together. The resistance and give of two erections sliding alongside each other, even through the layers of two pairs of underwear, is magnificent, and yeah, this way definitely works too. 


	3. Aziraphale (again)

Crowley is writhing beneath him, dazzling and brilliant. Sweat damp, his hair an absolute disaster and looking all the more delightful for it. They haven’t even got all their clothes off yet, this is ridiculous. In the best way, obviously. There’s too much pent up whatever going on here for them to care. Aziraphale could get drunk just on the lust in the air. 

The give and take thrusting of their hips is perfect, wild and urgent. They’re not going to get much further than this, Aziraphale can tell. The heat is too high inside him already, and Crowley’s desperation has his eyes practically glowing, fat slits of black slashed down the centre of molten brass. Aziraphale might be a bit useless at this, he thinks, too keen and not quite able to concentrate on what he should probably be doing. Maybe it takes practice. 

Then they are turning, rolling, Crowley heaving them over and rising, glorious, on his knees. He looks down, every inch of him raw power and majesty and Aziraphale wonders how he spent so long never quite appreciating the absolute beauty of this creature. It had taken him until at least the turn of BC to AD to register exactly what it was he felt towards Crowley. And then another two thousand years to do anything about it. And in the end, that had been Crowley too, hadn’t it? 

Holding Aziraphale’s gaze, steady and sure, Crowley snaps his fingers between them, ridding them of the last layers of unnecessary cotton and silk in a split second. The contact of his hand around them both is shocking in its simplicity and the sudden increase in sensation. His fingers are long and elegant, always have been, and they wrap loosely around two cocks with ease and capability. Aziraphale _keens_ at the soft, cool touch of him. 

“Oh yes, darling, tell me,” Crowley croons, and rocks into his own grip, sliding the brutal, hot hardness of his cock alongside and over Aziraphale’s. His voice is bass and velvet, skittering goosebumps up Aziraphale’s arms. “Tell me more, tell me everything.”

“Crowley,” he gasps, useless hands grabbing at the lean meat of his thighs. He’s overwhelmed by everything: the emotions he can sense all around; the weight of Crowley at his hips; the nerves lighting up along his erection, firing off into his pelvis, up his spine. He feels like he’s sinking into the mattress, and flying at the same time. 

Crowley releases his grip, leans on his hands, one either side of Aziraphale’s ribcage. He flattens down, and creeps animalistically up the length of Aziraphale’s body, rubs the stubble-rough corner of his chin over his pale chest, smears his jaw up to the base of his neck and breathes him in deep. He hooks his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder and rubs himself side to side, licks up the side of his neck. 

“Are you… scenting me?”

“Damn fuckin right I am,” Crowley mumbles. “OK?”

“Yes. More than. Yes.” He likes it, the idea of being marked as Crowley’s. He’s not entirely sure who the marking is for, if anyone else will ever sense it or smell it or feel it at all (he doesn't think he'll be spending much time with any other demons or angels any time soon, hopefully, please), but Crowley wants to do it, and Aziraphale wants to take it. Simple as.

* * *

They make eye contact, fire meeting cool ice water and not dampening even a millionth of a degree, and suddenly Crowley’s mouth is on his; ragged breathing and sharp teeth. His spine rolls, his hips shifting back and then forth, grinding heavy, stroking their cocks together, pressing them into each other’s bellies. 

The friction is awesome, a little bit of slick and slide from sweat and precome, the roughness of hair, the drag and warmth of skin. Aziraphale’s hand finds its way up the corded muscle of Crowley’s arm, over his shoulder, into the satin flame of his hair. He digs his fingers in, feels the shudder it creates in the lithe body above him, and pulls. 

Crowley breaks the kiss, panting into the small sliver of air between them. “Again. More.”

Aziraphale yanks, from the root, hard enough to tip Crowley’s head back, bare his throat, his eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. His slim hips kick up a gear and Aziraphale reaches down to palm the working muscles of his backside, taking a full handful of arse, urges him on. 

“I’m coming, Angel, I’m there, I’m...” Crowley is shaking, whining, and then finally bucking above him. It’s beautiful. The noise he makes as he spills between them is a gorgeous, lung-rattling groan, coming from deep within, a sort of build up and relief and release and Aziraphale wishes he was tasting it. Crowley goes limp as the aftershocks jitter through him, collapsing down on the mess between them, panting into the curve between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. He sneaks out his tongue to taste and hums contentedly. 

“Give me two minutes, Angel,” he rumbles. 

“I’ve all the time in the world, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs back, and runs his hands up and down the arc of Crowley’s gently curved back. Like a rainbow, he muses.

“Do you want to fuck me?” It’s offered openly. 

Aziraphale thinks for a bit. He would like that. He really would. His prick, in fact, twitches eagerly at the thought. But what he wants more is for Crowley to relax the rest of the way, sink down into him and stay there. Flatten the rainbow and feel like he isn’t going to move away when he’s caught his breath. 

“Just stay here with me,” Aziraphale whispers. _Don’t leave me again_. 

* * *

Crowley doesn’t go. He does, however, shift to the side to lie alongside Aziraphale, and stroke his graceful, long-fingered hand up and down his soft belly, tucking his fingers into the fuzzy hair there. He’s kissing at the round corner of his shoulder, sharp teeth worrying at the flesh occasionally, almost absent-mindedly. 

“Can I touch you, Angel?” 

“Please.”

Crowley reaches down, takes hold of him, gently. Explores and tests and learns, circles his fingers around the length, weighs it in his palm, worries the slit with the pad of his thumb, shifts the skin up and down. Aziraphale feels each new sensation like a jolt in his pelvis, echoing up into his stomach. 

“Please,” he says again. Manners are important. So, at the moment, is begging. 

Eventually, when he’s satisfied, Crowley builds up a rhythm. He works his hand up and down, an extra squeeze at the base, pushing down into Aziraphale’s balls to make him grunt, and twist of his thumb over the head on the upstroke. He slings a leg over Aziraphale’s chunky thigh, leans in to breathe hotly into his ear. 

“I love your cock, Angel. So good, so hard, so heavy and fat. It felt incredible inside me. I remember that all the time. Just what I needed. Just what I’ve needed for such a long time.”

Aziraphale whines highly, before he can stop himself. Oh the mouth on that boy, always causing trouble. He bends a leg, raising his knee, flattening it again, impatient and uncomfortable and needing to move, but not away. Never away. 

“I’ll have it again later, if I may, if you would be ssssoo kind…” Crowley hisses.

“I would, yes, please.”

“You would. You’d be so kind. You’d feed it to me so nicely, into my mouth, let me swallow you down, stretch out my jaw, squeeze down my throat.”

“Crowley.” It’s only fair he warns him, this is too good, this is pushing him really quite far. He can feel the last stage of engorgement heating, burning his cock, he can feel his balls tightening up. 

He’s in his element here though, Crowley. He licks Aziraphale’s ear, his tongue tracing around the shell, flicking the lobe. “Then you could feed it to me again, into my arse, Angel. Nice and slow, make me feel every bit of it. Then draw back out, until I’m begging, until I’m wriggling and squirming underneath you.”

“Crowley,” he pants, his own hand grabbing Crowley’s wrist, some kind of defence mechanism to ensure he doesn’t stop. He’s right there, he’s at the edge; just one push, just one tight squeeze, one quick movement. 

“And then you could fuck into me, hard, rough, I want it so much, Angel. And you’d give it to me, wouldn’t you?”

He’s coming. He’s coming so hard he can’t even see anything. Could be that he’s closed his eyes, could be that he’s gone blind. He couldn’t care any less right now. Crowley works him through it, panting into his ear like he’s coming himself. The clench of Aziraphale’s muscles is pure ecstasy, the sweet push, the heavy release. He’s not sure what noise he’s making, but it makes his throat feel dry. 

He sinks down into the mattress as he finishes, his head spinning and eyes aching. “I love you,” he makes sure to force out, his voice croaky. 

* * *

Once again, it would appear Aziraphale has fallen asleep. Well, he had. He’s waking up now with no idea how much time has passed. Orgasms seem to have a remarkably soporific effect upon him. He knows, however, exactly where he is. This is definitely Crowley’s bed, it smells delightfully of him, all spice and cold, red fire and green life. It smells even more delightfully of him because he is also in it. 

Starfished, spread across the bed, penning Aziraphale into the top far corner. Not that he minds. He can’t even bring himself to mind when Crowley grumbles something in his sleep, turns towards him and accidentally slaps him around the head. 

“S’rry Nn-jel.”

“Quite alright, my dear.”

Crowley cracks open an eyelid, just one. The black slice of his pupil shimmers and adjusts to the dim morning light. He sniffs indelicately and clears his throat. “Hi.”

“I’m feeling the need for a nice cup of tea and something sweet and baked. Can I tempt you?”

Crowley grins, flapping a hand over to take hold of Aziraphale around the middle and tug him closer. “You can tempt me to anything you like. Without even trying.”

“I’ll remember that.” Aziraphale fights to sit up a few moments later, but is pinned down by a dozing demon. “I’m hungry, Crowley.”

A lazy grumble, “In a minute. Just cuddle with me for a bit longer.”

Well, he’s not going to say no to that. 

* * *


End file.
